


Through Heaven's Eyes

by JointExisting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crisis of Faith, Drunkenness, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Wings, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JointExisting/pseuds/JointExisting
Summary: Aziraphale was very tired after the world didn't end. He just wanted to sleep a few months - a year tops. So, why wasn't he allowed a moment of peace? Why couldn't She let him rest? Why? Surely, after all he's been through, he is entitled to a few answers--is that reallytoo muchto ask?Similarly, Crowley just wanted a week to get his thoughts in order, to take a breather and work out what the Hell wasnext. Next, as he discovered, was rushing back to London when his soul screamed and it wasn't his voice he heard.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 64





	1. Losing my Religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello !  
> Please note there is a panic attack described in this opening chapter. Panic attacks are experienced differently by everyone, and can be traumatic. I have taken great care in how I am describing it, with bolding to highlight the beginning of and end of the panic attack itself.  
> If you can, and are safe to do so, you should read it, as it is an important moment for Aziraphale's character arc within the story.  
> Please stay safe!

Contrary to most commonly-held and popular beliefs, Crowley and Aziraphale were not a couple.

They, as of yet, never had been. The thought might have occurred on occasion, and their not-always-fleeting glances weren’t exactly discreet (even if neither of them would be caught admitting to the longer ones), but a relationship between an angel and a demon?

It simply wasn’t _done_.

But what wasn’t done _before_ the Not-End-of-the-World, well, Aziraphale found himself questioning if the same logic now applied to the newest beginning of his story on earth, or if everything they’d thought of as ineffable was... well, _effable_? If everything he’d simply accepted as truth might actually be debatable.

Although the idea had frightened him – and he kept the thoughts consigned to Soho’s quiet hours – the sudden influence of questions started to inconsiderably plague him with almost every aspect of his life, from walking to the bakery and wondering _why is she homeless?_ to cleaning his windows and thinking of a troubled little boy in the park last week: _why is he suffering?_ to remembering when he watched two men share a quick kiss on the Tube – he’d smiled, their love warming him – but then around the angel people had begun tutting and barking and muttering angrily at the momentary expression of their love.

Aziraphale had sat in bewilderment, watching the two men share a pained and drained look before both departing on to the station.

“Good riddance,” a woman near him had bristled, clenching her copy _Daily Mail_ tighter. “Poofs.”

Aziraphale had simply clasped his hands together, strained his lips into a line, and wondered belatedly _why does someone else’s love bother you?_

Today, fifteen days and five hours since the Not-End-of-the-Earth, those flashes of inquisitiveness would come to a head.

It had all been a very normal day for the angel, as he’d puttered about the bookshop and hummed along to Chopin, all except for the dogged effect it took to lift his every limb. Aziraphale was not much for sleeping, no, never had been; he’d always much preferred reading away the hours he wasn’t on the clock, pausing only to make himself (they were so much better _made_ than _miracled_ ) a cocoa and to dine out every-so-often when he fancied something a little divine. This, as it would be, was the opposite of Crowley, who slept away years of their earth-bound existence and seemed to enjoy the act of huddling beneath the covers and making an almost bird-like nest more than he enjoyed causing mischief and mayhem.

But even Aziraphale had a limit, and his tolerance after the last few years they’d been through was lower than the Thames had been in 1716. The events meant to culminate in Armageddon had sent him dizzy and worn him right down to the point of nearly collapsing in front of a rather pompous customer the other day (thankfully, it had made the woman leave him and his first edition of Jane Austen’s _Emma_ well alone).

After that _trivial_ episode and deciding he best to account of his immortal health, he made it a point to shut the shop up tightly and then wound closed the locks with enough wards and charms and minor miracles to secure himself from the twenty-first century for a few months; maybe a year tops. He know he should write a note to Crowley, in case the demon came looking, but he’d not heard from him nor felt him within the City since the couple hours they’d spent wandering London after Berkeley Park and their lunch at the Ritz.

They were meant to be laying low for a while anyway; perhaps Crowley had decided to leave and go up Scotland way for a couple of years, or maybe over to Wales to sleep a while in a small cabin in the Brecon Beacons—maybe further, maybe Ireland. The North, perhaps, the dusty lanes as the weather embarked into autumn, where maybe he was scouting in all possibility for the last unassuming orchids for no other reason than to do something _absolutely mundane_ and different to what they’d gone through.

Crowley’s leaving was nothing to remark on: they’d been friends for 6000 years, would be for 6000 more – in all hope – and Aziraphale used to find their decades-long absences from one another duly refreshing to the point of maddening boring, until they evidently met again and again and again. It wasn’t all that suddenly the demon took pride of place in the angel’s life; indeed, Crowley had behaved almost like a trickle of water slowly becoming a fast-flowing river.

Of course, there were reasons they gravitated toward one another: As an immortal being, a creature of Her Light, Aziraphale had long gotten used to the dark of when those around him left rather too often and too quickly and very permanently. Crowley might stay away for a little long sometimes, but he always came back eventually.

Back to the present, Aziraphale trailed through his bookshop in the fashion of those with time on their hands, his hands clasped together behind his back. As he sauntered, he asked politely for the lights to shut off and for his collection to gather the telltale dust of a bookkeeper instead of the pristine cleanliness of a bookseller. He queried unplugging the old phone, but instead decided he best record something for the customers – and Crowley – who might ring in his absence. “Hello,” he said in his softest voice, smiling as he did, “This is Mr A. Z. Fell, of A. Z. Fell and Co Books. Thank you for contacting us. We are currently refurbishing, and unable to take your call, order, or sell any books at present. Thank you, and God Bless.”

The recording knocked off the ending of ‘bless’, turning it simply to ‘ble’. He was about to rerecord it, when his eyes drooped low and a headache pinched his frontal lobe. Aziraphale touched three fingers to his head and shook himself, but it only served to further aggravate the pressure settling behind his eyes. “Best not,” he said aloud, replaced the phone and turned to walk into the backroom. He flicked his fingers at a shelf and let it close him inside, not to be bothered, and then allowed the lights to warm from a gentle glow to a cascade and to illuminate his most prized books: all of Oscar’s works, first editions and mint. He had Shakespeare, with several editions of Hamlet taking up two whole shelves, and though he enjoyed reading them, he had them just as much because he and Crowley were rambling drunks.

They’d enacted several of William’s plays together while intoxicated, and then spent hours arguing mindlessly about whether it was a sin for modern production companies to use modern English instead of original wording. Crowley cared a great deal in some cases, especially with the comedies as he thought some of the best moments were lost with trying to reinvent them with modern language, while Aziraphale was just glad humans still went to the theatre to watch them be performed “ _as they should be_.”

“ _But, angel_ ,” Crowley would slur, looking over his sunglasses, his right hand wrapped around another full glass of red while the left he used to gesture madly around them, “ _Are-are they... Are they as they should... should be! If, uh, if they’re sayin’ ‘whether it is knobler’ instead a’ ‘whether tis knobler’?_ ”

And Aziraphale would respond, “ _It’s ‘nobler’, my dear. Don’t be a knob_.”

“ _Don’t be a kn-ooo-ob_ ,” Crowley would mimic and they’d fall about laughing.

The memory made Aziraphale smile momentarily before he made his way across to the sofa – the one Crowley usually sprawled out on, and the one which Aziraphale would presently use for a bed; he’d never had need of an upstairs which wasn’t devoted to more books after all, and to miracle himself some place to sleep now would bring him unneeded attention from Up There.

The very last thing he wanted was for anyone Up There to think about glancing back through his miracles, or to take them away. To miracle himself a bedroom – Intimate Books next door never used their upstairs, so humans probably wouldn’t notice it very fast – would put a target on his back; he imagined they were already monitoring him for the ‘Hellfire Stunt’.

He’d only worried about miracling the table at the Ritz a couple of hours afterwards, though Crowley had barely seemed to think it mattered much. Aziraphale really wasn’t sure, and now every single snap of the fingers, every minor thought, he worried himself half to dis-corporation about whether Heaven was taking more notice than normal, trying to work out what he was.

He knew exactly who and what he was: He was A. Ziraphale. He was A. Z. Fell. He was Avery Fell. He was Ezra Fell. Memorably, he’d also been Elisa Fell once or twice and, of course, Brother Francis the Gardener. To some people, he was just Aziraphale, a bookkeeper more than bookseller.

But through Heaven’s eyes, he would always be the Principality Aziraphale, an angel, and Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten on to the sofa depressed; maybe he should have worked himself awake again with cocoa and a fantasy novel before attempting sleep – something he wasn’t even entirely sure he could remember how to do, it had been so long. Although not willing to get up, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and there appeared a frothy cocoa (Heavens, it would still taste awful) on the table beside him, and across him the dusty blanket from the cupboard materialised. As the lights dimmed to cosiness, he fumbled about for a book beneath the sofa and found Jack London’s _Call of the Wild_. He’d barely gotten three pages in when his eyes fell shut.

It shouldn’t have been enough, especially as he felt it was no more than a couple of seconds before his eyes opened into the soft light again. At some point, he’d curled up. Aziraphale was sure he’d only been asleep for moments, a day at best, but the soft warmth surrounding him spoke more of languid weeks beneath the blanket.

A phantom sip of his moulded-over cocoa was all it took for him to realise something was really, very, incredibly wrong. And it wasn’t his cocoa.

His wings were out.

The blanket was gone, had long-since fallen to the floor, and now Aziraphale found himself enveloped in his white wings. He reached up and touched a primary feather, running it over his fingers—it was a dreadful moment later when he realised this couldn’t be his shop – nor could it be any mortal plane, for his wings were, embarrassingly, _far too clean_.

That was when the burning smell hit his nose—except, this was different. Its scent was like no fire he’d smelled before, and Aziraphale could say he had walked the thin lines between forest fires and building fires, of arson and mistake. He had spent countless miracles on a dog finding its way from a burning house, to horses stuck on fevered and burning moors launching themselves over rivers—collapsed cats and kittens waking up, full of life, and fleeing into their owner’s arms. He knew what fire was, what it represented, what little could be done about the lives it ravaged. Aziraphale had had to learn quickly during fires where he was most needed – _if_ he was needed at all. While faith was not always peoples’ first thought, the aftermath of prayer – of hope – was chilling; he’d sat in burnt-out churches, the fire still smouldering outside, and prayed for Her to hear the cries of Her creations, and to turn their tears into rain across aflame continents. Sometimes She listened.

But this was so different. The smog entering the backroom was not sooty, and was not choking the angel – nor sitting on his lungs. It did not leave the taste of ash on his tongue, or sticky-up his gums and teeth, His throat remained clear—in fact, he felt he could almost, _almost_ breathe better.

Aziraphale sat up properly and allowed his wings to unfurl, making sure to stretch the ache from the tips with a deep groan, feeling his body give beneath their added weight. His wings were nothing impressive and, though he’d once tried to set a grooming routine, it still hadn’t happened—but for a second, as he stared at them from the corner of his eye, he saw what they could look like, how prim and clean and tidy. Aziraphale was a very tidy dresser; he’d always considered his wings to be the most unruly part of him, but here they were and they _could_ be just like the rest of him.

Pushing himself on to his socked feet, Aziraphale breathed in deeply in an attempt to defuse the undue stress sitting in his stomach like a nervous spring. He breathed in again, trying to follow the scent of the fire—the warmth, the crisp, cleanliness drawing into him like the air in a sauna.

 _A sauna_. That was the feeling, the underlying pulse beneath his skin, settled in his bones; that of the heat and the smell and the clean smoke. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and tried to fathom why he was having this... – humans called them ‘dreams’, he knew – and what had made his unconscious mind go directly to the idea of a sauna—and why, most of all, was it in his bookshop?

Aziraphale downed his wings, but they wouldn’t disappear no matter how he pressured them to, and he asked his bookshelf to move so he could walk into the front of the shop. Natural, almost homely light filtered in and Aziraphale baulked; he tolerated some natural light in the bookshop, but he’d long-since blacked out a couple windows which had brought in too much light and discoloured some quite beloved folios. Yet, in that moment, the shop looked nearly as open as it had in 1800, when he’d still valued it for the idea of being a bookshop instead of a place to house his collection.

Moving swiftly into the light, Aziraphale raised his nose and inhaled, trying once again to identify anything else—maybe where it was, maybe to take him to the source. He accepted the stomach ache curling up, and the shortening of his breath, as he walked further toward the heat, the sauna, and finally heard the telltale signs of water on hot-rocks.

 _Ah_. Aziraphale pattered over the floor, realising quite too suddenly how warm it was getting—how the closer he got the light was shifting, reddening, turning the pale white of sunshine into a glossed pink, a blush, and then a deeper red. Although he hadn’t properly spoken to Crowley about it, about Hell, he had imagined the colours to be more like _this_ , a hellish red as Satan’s body had been when he’d come up through the tarmac. Instead, what he’d witnessed had been dark and damp, with mildew on the walls and the smell of rotten flesh—Hell Proper.

But this colour, Aziraphale realised, was more like the Hell he thought he might visit; the texture across the floor and walls was almost lava-like as it shifted around him in an ever-changing decay and revitalisation. How, though, was this colour outside? How was it shining in? Where in the Heavens was he?

 _Am I in Heaven?_ The cleanliness felt close to Heaven, with the sterile cold, but as he’d walked further toward the sounds of water-spit, it was beginning to resemble Hell in all but the nature of the bookshelves. Aziraphale paced himself carefully and rounded a corner.

There, a basin of holy water sat in the red shades of light. Aziraphale’s wings spread slightly, and he flit a hand to his heart; a basin of holy water in his shop, and it was spitting. Steam rose in thin tendrils, and the angel registered the clean-scent now as holiness. He couldn’t quite describe the smell, as he himself had never smelled something quite like it: an underlying heaviness of water, of fat raindrops hung loosely in the air with the other smell, the fire, muted as it was. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought they were combining, changing, and becoming the spitting holy water itself.

It was then in a moment of nerve-shattering silence, Aziraphale realised why the fire was in and of itself familiar: it was hellfire.

He stood there not breathing, just staring, as the holy water sputtered about itself, seeming to grow more aggressive as time wore on, as his thoughts gathered themselves. Instinct replaced logic and the angel took up a quick pace to get closer, correcting his collar as he did. A fat drop of holy water suddenly flung out of the basin towards him, and hit the pale skin of his hand.

_It burnt._

Aziraphale shrieked and drew away, staring in fright as the holy water decided unceremoniously to begin spilling over towards him like a sheet—of burning, spitting, _tainted holy water_. His jaw fell open. Hand still burning, Aziraphale backed away, raising his eyes from the disappearing floor only when he was a safe distance.

It was then another beat of silence strung towards him like the first seconds after a blackout, and great plumes of dark, contorting smoke began to seep from the shelves—the scent of fire – of dangerous, _real, clawing hellfire_ – flooded his every sense. Two moments of hesitation and Aziraphale watched as three of his bookcases caught alight like the fire was trailing oil— _Hellfire_ —the word leapt to the front of his mind, imbedded itself there like the headache had done for him earlier. He pressed a hand to his chest, mouth hanging open, and fled back to where he’d come from.

His wings were useless in the cramped bookcase-lined hallways, in the smoulder and the sheet of water starting to grow around him. Aziraphale found his way back into the circular and flapped once, twice, propelling himself on to the balconies to watch in disbelief as the fire climbed and, all of a sudden, a thundering wave of spitting holy water crashed through his shop—it should have doused the flame, and Aziraphale – wearing the expression he had that day, speaking with the Metatron, as the hope had faded from his blues – realised with a sick rumbling he was about to perish, to _drown_ in the water of Heaven and choke on the fires of Hell.

He steadied himself on the balcony and stared up at the circular windowpane, where most of the red light was emitting from. It was his only choice. Aziraphale spread his wings, cried out when a flicker of hellfire caught a primary, and launched himself upwards with a sweep of his feathers, electric pulses fizzling in the air.

A current took him upwards, the nerves drained out of him, but then just as suddenly as he was going up, he was being pulled _down_.

Down. Down. Toward the holy water, the flames—falling as the world around him blinkered and his vision tunnelled into the void, the black surrounding him twinkling with the faint lights of those who’d gone, or maybe of the stars forged thousands of years ago. It didn’t matter, it never would—Aziraphale’s eyes slipped closed just as he hit the water—

He was still falling when he opened his eyes in the backroom of the shop, his heart beating madly, and tumbled from the sofa and on to the floor, kicked the table and sent the practically toxic cocoa all over the furniture. **The blanket** took the brunt of it, and Aziraphale shoved it away from him in a few seconds of splintering panic—he stumbled to his feet and fell arse over tit, managing in his haste to be free of confines, but not the memory of flames licking at his lifeblood.

He slammed his back into a bookshelf and opened his mouth in a soundless scream.

Books of all genres flailed down from their shelves and hit the floor with the sickening crack of a broken spine, and Aziraphale watched, trembling; the otherwise stillness of the backroom, the silence from the wards and the charms surrounding his building, played straight into his mind and he snapped his fingers at the wall, the bookshelf he’d used to conceal himself and let the expense of the night lights from Soho crowd into his hazed world, as sobs racked his body and he dropped on to his front and started to scream despite having no breath left in his lungs for it.

He cried himself out and lay there wavering between sickness and sleep, unsure of himself, of his shop, of Heaven and Hell. At some point, as his breathing eclipsed his thoughts, he unconsciously slipped into the state of everything being silent and yet far too loud. Behind his wide, unblinking eyes his dream unfolded again and again and he spiralled downwards, forgetting and yet living every moment he could not find the will in himself to describe. He’d forgotten what panic attacks were, how they felt, how everything was about him and yet the universe didn’t acknowledge his plight.

And although the feelings, which prickled like the holy water from his dream, faded and subdued over the next few hours, his nerves were shot and his body exhausted and he _would not sleep_. **No. Never again.**

The next two days, sixteen hours and thirty-seven minutes of Aziraphale’s life were a constant flinch, a seemingly never-ending fight – which brings us to another beginning of sorts where, after the aforementioned time has passed, the angel has finally risen from his crumbled position on the floor and walked into his bookshop.  
Aziraphale snapped his fingers and breathed when his clothes, rumpled and dusty from time badly spent, were replaced with clean attire, and the sweatiness of the past few days was swept off his body.

Another snap and the wards and charms dispersed from his building and the old bricks gave away to the scattered voices outside going about their life, as though nothing had happened; nothing whatsoever.

Aziraphale forced a smile. _Yes, nothing has happened_ , he thought clearly for the first time, ignoring the part of him which was still screaming. After all, his heart was still thumping, and he was still breathing; did he need to have anything else?

He placed a hand to his chest and let out a lung-emptying sigh, before raising his eyes to the circular pane of glass above him letting in the warmth of autumn; the light was not red here, more of a creamy cross between white and yellow. “God,” he said in an unused voice. “Uh, God? Hello?” Aziraphale called for Her attention this time, wetting his lips. He paused in his reaching for a minute until the next, “God?” was barely audible.

Aziraphale dropped his eyes down, along with his hands pressed together in prayer. He felt himself deflate, even if he wasn’t sure if that was the feeling, and clouds of doubt gathered more fiercely in his mind than they had ever done. “Why?” he asked, with no understanding to whom he was asking the question. Was he asking God? Gabriel? The Planet? Himself?

Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of him, his knuckles white and took in another breath, letting it out slowly. He walked slowly, his steps echoing in the silence, toward the door and pushed up the shades, turning the sign to _Open_. With a click of his fingers the door unlocked, and he turned to his shop, his collection, and existed for a moment in the quiet of the lucid dark of faint daylight.

“Why?” he repeated, repented, swallowed and, finally, he thought he understood—and yet, in all truth, he wasn’t supposed to ask if he was right. That didn’t stop him, not now: “Why? _Dammit!_ Why?”

Aziraphale collapsed on to his knees, but his eyes were dry – red-rimmed, cold, but dry. The hard line of his lips split into a grimace and he furrowed his brow, throwing his head back to stare at Her diminishing light. Leaving him in the darkness—an angel, one such as him, how dare _She_.

 _How dare She_.

He clenched a fist and shoved it knuckle-first against the floor of his shop. Today would mark a very special day in his 6000 years of living, for it was the first day of the rest of his life:

For it was not just the day he lost his religion, but also the moment he misplaced his faith.


	2. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley arrives back in London and goes straight to the bookshop.
> 
> A few things happen. The important thing is, he and Aziraphale get absolutely plastered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have revised chapter 1 before this, as I did not feel it was up to my usual standards. No critically additional information was added, but I do feel it now reads better with a clearer understanding of what Aziraphale is going through.

Crowley hadn’t meant to leave so suddenly.

He knew, in his heart of hearts, he should have gone to Aziraphale first; they should have sat down together, with a few weeks behind them since the hellfire and the holy water, and had a sober chat about what was next. Ideally, _the next_ should be another lunch at _The Ritz_ , followed by a night at the theatre – then, in the morning, a brisk walk through St James Park to the duck pond, to stand together in the perfect weather London had had since Not-the-End.

They’d spoken once or twice before – and a dozen times drunk – on being something more, and now that Hell wasn’t breathing down his neck every second, the idea of finally having _his angel_ was more than tempting to his subtly demonic nature.

But it hadn’t gone exactly how he’d wanted it to, as in; it hadn’t gone exactly _at all_.

He’d jumped in his Bentley, ready to do 90mph from Mayfair to Soho to a certain bookshop, when he’d stopped and sat there and stared at the road ahead of him. The darkness offered by his sunglasses gave him nought protection from the overwhelming pressure so suddenly applied to his thoughts and before he knew it, he was getting as fast out of the capital as he could.

He stayed out of it for a week. He didn’t do anything, demonic act, tempting or subtle miracle. It was on the fifth day he felt something, something like a scream in the depths of himself—but it wasn’t his.

It shouldn’t have taken him as long as it did to get in his Bentley, turn it away from Brighton and get back to London. He didn’t even consider going to his flat; he knew his plants would be fine. He’d _told_ them they’d be fine, and they would _bloody well listen_ if they knew what was good for them.

No, he went straight to Soho—to the bookshop, travelling at 70mph instead of his comfortable 90mph. The closer Crowley got, the more the feelings inside him resembled _that day_. The day he pulled up, screeching to a stop, stepped out on to the tarmac, ignored the fire-fighter human and walked straight into the blaze with a snap of his fingers to _demand_ the doors open for him. They had, because he knew they would, and he’d found the anger he needed there.

Then he found a book, and then a bottle, and then they saved the world but that wasn’t too important right now.

Crowley slowed as he got to the bookshop – about lunch time, according to his watch – and realised how well his timing was; he hadn’t seen Aziraphale in a few weeks, and what better way to start a conversation than to invite him to lunch at... Ah, he could miracle them a place at _Rules_ ; they hadn’t eaten there in a decade or so.

He stepped out of the Bentley and looked at the shop, feeling a wave of nervousness filter out from the angel inside. Crowley faltered in his step, nearly got himself knocked down by a yellow _Audi_ , and downed his sunglasses to look at the bookshop in the subdue sunlight. On the outside, it seemed normal – a little darker than usual, but it wasn’t unlike his angel to keep lights off to deter potential customers.

But he felt it. A shift.

Crowley walked across the street and stepped up to the door, unsurprised to see it said _‘closed’_ in a polite typeface. He placed his hand on the door handle, but drew back in puzzlement at the old twinges of wards. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale was not one for using any of his supposed ‘magic’ to guard his shop—and had been very set against using wards, even when Crowley placed them to casually turn any suspicion off if the music got a bit loud in the evenings they spent together.

So, why had his angel begun using them _now_? When they had some semblance of space and frail freedoms? Was this _the something_ he'd felt? Had that arseangel Gabriel paid Aziraphale a little visit? The threats, despite them dispersing after Crowley had been more than a little demonic in his characterisation of his angel, had still been potent, had stayed with him – had made Crowley wonder about all those little times when his angel had spoken of being ‘reprimanded’ for frivolous miracles or suchlike.

He’d wanted to ask, at some point in the near future, if Gabriel always spoke like that nowadays—not that Crowley remembered how he’d spoken _back then_ —but he’d never found a good moment. Aziraphale always dragged him back to his Hell Trial, to asking for rubber ducks and a towel from Michael. When Crowley had briefly brought up Heaven, and his treatment with the Hellfire, Aziraphale had baulked, shaken his head and muttered something like “oh, dear”, before he’d grabbed the dessert menus and started trying to get Crowley to have something sweet.

Obviously, Aziraphale knew him too well. He’d Fallen for asking questions, for being of a nature to take issue Her and Her ways. Of course Crowley had immediately wanted to ask if Gabriel was always as abusive an arsehole as he’d been at the attempted execution.

He’d get the answer one day, he was sure.

Pretending to fumble with some keys, Crowley subtly snapped his fingers and the door relented under his touch; at least if Aziraphale didn’t want him to enter, he probably wouldn’t be able to. His angel might be demoted, might be somewhat of an outcast for his love of Humanity’s quirks, but he’d still once stood guard at The Eastern Gate of Eden. He still had power, and the ability to use it, even if he chose not to.

Although Crowley did not remember as much of his time in Heaven as he sometimes wished, he did remember something in the very back of his mind: Aziraphale was much, much more special an angel than anyone ever made him out to be.

Suddenly, Crowley realised he was not alone by the impatient clearing of a throat behind him. He turned slightly to look at the prospective customer, a dower-looking man, who was crowding in. Crowley looked directly at him, eyebrows rising above the arch of his sunglasses. He tapped Aziraphale’s sun-damaged closed sign; obviously, the polite typeface was too polite. “Not open.”

“Do you know when he will be, then?” asked the customer in a harried sort of way and with a downward turn of his lips, glancing dismissively at the ‘opening times’ sheet Aziraphale had larked up one day.

Crowley let out a breath. “Do I look like I work here?”

The customer gave a doubtful shake of the head, and then paused. “But... he’s mentioned someone – his _dear_ – and that’s you, right? You’re his... husband? Partner? Whatever you call it nowadays.” His small eyes swept down Crowley’s figure passively. “Why else would you have a key?”

Setting his lips in a bowed frown, Crowley said, “You’ve met him before? You’re a _repeat_ customer?” He couldn’t keep the amazement out of his voice; Aziraphale had _regulars_? Crowley had thought only coffee shops, charity shops, garden centres and non-customer-hating-bookshops had those.

“Yep,” said the customer, with a definite nod. “I was just in yesterday after a book – he said he might have it by today.”

Crowley’s face split into a grin. “Hey, lemme save you the trouble; if he was open yesterday – which I doubt; it was a _Sunday_ – then he will _definitely_ not open today. Sorry, uh-”

Just because he could, Aziraphale appeared at the door, pulling it open as he removed the glasses he didn’t need but completed the aesthetic, and flipped the sign to ‘Open’. “Oh.” His voice came out quieter than usual, swapping glances between Crowley and the customer as though he’d only just noticed either of them, before he settled his blues on the demon. “Crowley, dear! I wasn’t aware you were coming today—And Mr Hammel! Perfect timing; the post just arrived with your book. Thank— _thank goodness_ you came in.” The waver in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, at least by Crowley.

The Mr Hammel gave Aziraphale a haughty-looking smile and pushed passed Crowley, throwing a look much too reminiscent of Gabriel’s bracketed smirk for him to feel wholly safe for both himself and Aziraphale. Quickly, turning the flipped sign back to ‘Closed’, Crowley followed them into the shop and shut the door behind him.

Something was decidedly very different.

Aziraphale’s presence was everywhere, but the very essence of _angel_ was dimmed. Masked was, perhaps, a better word to describe it, as his being – his Light – was still as vibrant as ever.

The customer, although an inconvenience and a sleazy one at that, did give Crowley a moment to look around—playing as the partner, just checking the shelves, letting his _‘husband’_ take this Mr Hammel to the register to retrieve the book and bag it. Crowley thought he heard laughter with the soft intones of their conversation, but he couldn’t be entirely sure. Instead of sulking about as he waited, he went deeper into the shop.

Despite the lamps scattered on surfaces where there weren’t books – or perched badly on top of stacks of them – the shop was far colder than normal—to the point even Crowley’s central heating wasn’t keeping him all that warm. Absently, he snapped his fingers at a heater and watched it turn on, beginning to quickly belt out heat into the chill; surely, the cold would invite damp? And dampness and books? Even Crowley knew the two weren’t good companions.

When timid footsteps trailed towards him, Crowley didn’t have to turn to know it was Aziraphale—the area had brightened considerably, as Crowley had been flicking through a rather expensive edition of Wordsworth’s short stories, and he said without looking up, “I know you hate customers, angel, but it’s not exactly a good idea to keep books in the cold.” He closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, turning with a smirk.

Less than a second later, Aziraphale’s arms were circling his waist and the angel was shoving his face directly against Crowley’s chest, a sob choking his throat—wetness in his eyes, smearing into the t-shirt—and Crowley was totally unprepared. He lifted his hands, rocked on his heels, and stood there as his angel trembled against him and continued to cry openly, fisting his jacket.

“Uh, Aziraphale? Angel?” The pet name worsened the already fat teardrops. “Hey, hey! What the Hell’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did that customer upset you? Did he touch one of your Wilde’s?” _Has something happened? Has Heaven been here?_ Crowley inhaled, but the only angelic presence around him, or indeed that had been in the shop lately, was Aziraphale himself (as far as he could tell, anyway; angels had a very certain smell). “Aziraphale...?”

His angel let out another gasp of tears.

Crowley’s resolve strengthened. He let his grip move to Aziraphale’s shoulders and tugged him away, dropping his head closer. “Angel.” More tears. “What the _Hell_ is wrong?” He bit his tongue before he could add ‘with you’ – because there was nothing wrong with Aziraphale; at least, nothing he could outwardly sense. The distress around them was palpable, and grief choked the air, a thin layer of hurt—but nothing, as far as Crowley could tell, that should have brought out this reaction.

Aziraphale lifted his head. His eyes, while unfocused, were rimmed red and his nose was running—making him look all manner of unpleasant. On any other day, Crowley would not see this; Aziraphale would not allow himself to be seen in such a state, and it would definitely go against the nature of their relationship—this was Aziraphale seeking, _needing_ comfort.

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel sniffed, shaking his head.

Crowley immediately summoned a packet of tissues. “Here,” he mumbled, opening them to hand a couple over, which Aziraphale took with an attempt at a smile as he tried hard through his trembles to dry his eyes and wipe his nose. “Bless you,” Crowley said beneath his breath.

Aziraphale heard it. Although he didn’t begin sobbing again, his whole being began to tremble more violently than before.

Taking his elbow, Crowley said, “C’mon, angel, I think we better go to the backroom and have some tea.”

“Bu-but the shop-”

“I locked it up with wards.” Aziraphale visibly stiffened at the idea, and Crowley had to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Aziraphale – you put wards on just the other day; I felt them as soon as I stepped near the door earlier.”

“Yes, well...” Aziraphale put a hand over his face and turned away slightly. “It didn’t go very well the last time...”

Crowley raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it; instead, he walked them toward the back of the shop. It wasn’t as much of a mess as usual, the angel having obviously tidied very recently, but the windows had been visibly painted over in a clashing black not in keeping with the rest of the decor. He stared at them, unblinking, and then turned to look at Aziraphale. “Uh... I thought you’d just put shelves there...?”

“I-I had... But, uh, safety – yes, safety inspector said it was a...” Aziraphale trailed off.

It was easy to see the gears were turning in Aziraphale’s head as he sought out words, almost as if he didn’t want to use the most obvious thing Crowley could think of it being. He allowed the angel to stand there, still sniffling and searching for words, as he went in search of the kettle on the table – taking the plug, putting it in, making it all human to give Aziraphale as long as he needed.

“A hazard,” Aziraphale finished rather lamely a moment after the water boiled, finally struck from his reverie. “So, I painted them black instead.” At least his snippy tone had returned, even though it still sounded a little sad.

Crowley poured the tea and turned to Aziraphale, finding him standing awkwardly in the room, as if unsure where to sit in his own shop. Nodding at the angel’s usual armchair, Crowley took the sofa – it dipped a little more eagerly than he remembered, like something had been on it for an extended amount of time. He patted it a few times here and there before finding a comfortable arrangement of cushions to lean into.

Aziraphale was looking at him strangely.

“Yes?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow. A few seconds later, tea in hand, he removed his sunglasses and blinked against the room’s subtle lighting; the tired hit him almost instantly, sitting there, and he dipped his head forward a moment before returning a look to the angel. “So,” he said when it became obvious Aziraphale wasn’t going to speak without being prompted further. “Are we going to talk about what just happened?”

“Well, actually, I was thinkin-”

“The answer is yes, angel,” said Crowley, stretching out one long leg. He took a few sips of the tea for something to wet his mouth before continuing, “That wasn’t normal, what just happened.”

Aziraphale’s smile lines crinkled as his lips upturned in the same way they had when they’d spoken to that idiot woman in the old birthing hospital in Tadfield—the former nun. That’s what she was. “My dear, how can you use that word about anything to do with us?”

“Because there’s some stuff that’s normal,” said Crowley, setting down his cup. “You being prickly to customers – that’s normal; except you were really nice to that idiot back then... You telling someone they can’t buy a book for some total made-up reason – that’s normal. You closing on a Sunday – that’s normal. You not crying – that’s normal.” He looked at the angel, who’d taken to staring at the floor, and said, “ _You’ve done all those things_. That’s not normal.”

“Uh, yes.” The angel still didn’t look up, one hand clenching his armrest until his knuckles were whiter than the moon on a clue night. “I... have... done those things lately.”

“You opened on a _Sunday_!” Crowley couldn’t keep the note of bemusement out of his tone, or the subtle curiosity.

“We are in London, Crowley; Sunday is a big day for tourists,” said Aziraphale, flicking his eyes from his scuffed shoes to his cup. He took a sip. “I had more customers in one day than I’ve had in twenty years.”

Crowley stared at him, at how when he put down his cup his hands started to fidget over his trousers, picking at a loose seam. “That... would be because you’re barely open when there are customers around?” Crowley hadn’t meant to make it sound like a question, but a flat statement hadn’t been right either: a balance sounded about right. “You opened at midnight once,” he recalled. “And closed at six in the morning.”

“You’d invited me out to breakfast,” Aziraphale replied, dodging the question in a manner very unbecoming of him. He took another sip of his tea and used another tissue to wipe his eyes, even though they were dry. At least he was finally sitting upright. “Besides, I have opened in the past.”

“When we’ve had storm warnings,” said Crowley, a little drily. “And during building works – and those four months they had the road up. Face it, angel, you haven’t exactly been trying to bring in customers lately.”

The angel drew in a sharp breath. “Well, I suppose you... might be right.” Aziraphale looked at him then, a strange and sudden openness in his expression. His shoulders sagged and he fell back into the chair, wearing his 6000 years of earth-bound existence. His eyes halved in a way which, to Crowley, would have suggested sleeplessness if either of them actually needed to sleep and it wasn’t just Crowley’s idea of a good time.

Comfortable silence surrounded them until, “I need a drink.” Aziraphale was up, his stewing tea forgotten, and walking steadfastly toward his standby bottles settled on the bottom shelf of a bookcase; as they’d been drinking them, the angel had steadily begun to replace the extra space with more books.

Crowley eyed the cheaper plonk Aziraphale had plucked off the shelf. “Junk wine?” he asked.

“Quite, dear. I don’t mind us drinking this and staying drunk.” His eyes cast a glance off into the distance of his shop, before he quickly placed the bottle on the table and went to get glasses. “I have plenty more, so don’t hold back.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, his serpentine eyes staring. He finished off his tea a few seconds later and reached for the bottle. “Aziraphale,” he said, trying to sound casually insistent. “I still want to know why you were so upset.”

“Well, parting is such sweet sorrow!” Aziraphale exclaimed with the lilt of a chuckle, although it was considerably forced. “My sales are up, and my books are finding new homes and new readers.” The tense pitch of his voice continued through his words. “I... I’m allowed to be a little upset.” The pause hung like the dead. He lifted his head. “Aren’t I?”

Alarm shot through Crowley at the sniffle and he was back on his feet, but Aziraphale turned around – gave him a pointed look which meant _sit down_ – and came back with the glasses, setting them gently on the table. He sat back in his chair, but not in a restful motion—almost like he was ready to jump straight back up at any moment to scurry off to some secure hidey-hole.

Crowley allowed the silence, sensing in the back of his mind Aziraphale wasn’t done. He was right about this.

“Aren’t I?” repeated Aziraphale, looking up. His lips tensed into a line.

“’Course.” Crowley thought it was the right thing to say, and by the way the breath leeched out of the other, it seemed it was.

“I am,” Aziraphale agreed, as if this made everything OK. He reached for the bottle and a glass, and then, finally, any previous tension melted away with just four words. “So, I tried sleeping.”

Crowley’s jaw slackened in surprise, tilting his head forward. “You? Sleeping?”

“Yes, but, oh, it... It didn’t go very well, I think.” Aziraphale unscrewed the lid on the bottle – what a step-down from fancy cork popping – and began to pour it into the flutes. “I... I did what the humans term ‘dream’.” His eyes widened on the word, and a shiver rocked his body. “I’m not surprised insomnia and sleep deprivation are such wide-spread issues. If every time I went to sleep, I had to dream of _that_ , I... well...”

“You wouldn’t sleep?” Crowley replied suitably, and watched the angel give a very subtle, almost invisible nod of the head before pinching his soft lips in a cross between a frown and a pout. The motion was enough for Crowley to say, “Seems to me, angel, you had a nightmare.”

Surprisingly, Aziraphale didn’t act as surprised as Crowley had thought he would; the angel, usually so endlessly fascinated by human subtleties, barely shifted his expression as he said, “I’ve seen humans have those.”

“Yeah, they aren’t pleasant,” Crowley remarked, topping up his glass as he realised he’d already drained it.

“Have you caused any?” asked Aziraphale absently, looking all the more interested in the bottle. “Been the cause of any? Does Hell do this?”

Crowley shrugged; the awkwardness around the conversation wasn’t shifting as he had hoped it might, but the angel didn’t seem to notice the slight discomfort he’d evoked with the pointed question. “Not sure,” Crowley said, when it was obvious nodding and shaking his head was getting nowhere. “Maybe? Honestly, I have no clue where dreams even come from—even less an idea where nightmares come from.” He wanted to see Aziraphale begin to muse over it, as he sometimes did when matters turned relatively ethereal, but if anything it only seemed to make him draw back into himself even more; a depression settled over the room.

“Probably Heaven,” Aziraphale said into the silence, lifting the flute to his lips and downing it in one gulp.

The cheap plonk was actually really good – or, at least, it did the trick: it got them both drunker than they’d been together in centuries.

That was, apparently, the exact thing Aziraphale needed.

“An-and you... know the best part of it?” asked Aziraphale, leaning way back into his chair. He held his glass tight against his chest, face reddened. “We—we can stay drunk, my dear! Hangovers, tomorrow! When was the last time you had-had a hangover?”

“Ngk?” Crowley sputtered, holding a bottle to his lips. “Dunno—When was... When was the childrens’ – no, wait, 1200’s... Think it was-was after the fourteenth, too, uh-”

Aziraphale visibly shivered. “I hated the fourteenth – the Black Death, _gah_. Every, every—everyone was just dying.” He gripped his glass and stared at Crowley with huge eyes, like even the mention brought back the memories.

It did for Crowley. “The children,” he hiccupped, wiping his mouth. “That was- that was- _Damn_. That was tough.”

“You, you, you—you mentioned the 1200’s?”

“Oh, the, uh, thirteenth century. _Ngk_.” Crowley swallowed another gulp of wine and sprawled further out into the sofa, itching his left shoulder harshly against a cushion – not that it helped the scratch there; it was on his wings, and he didn’t want to bother with them right now. He’d thrown his grooming routine out the window lately, along with every cohesive thought. “ _The Children’s Crusades_. Now that shit – I, just, I... And your-your lot didn’t even _try_ to do _anything_.”

“They didn’t wan’ to, dear.” Aziraphale raised his glass and tipped it slightly, frowning when only a drop of wine fell on to his peeking tongue. “Also, free will.”

Crowley slapped a hand to his forehead. “Free fucking will, a’right.”

“Crowley, I-I did not like it one bit.” Aziraphale gave him a long look with meaningful incentive. “I wen’ straight-”

“Careful there, you-you’ll hurt yaself,” Crowley chuckled as he interrupted. “Go-goin’ straight, I mean.”

Aziraphale stared at him dumbly, and then continued, “I wen’ to Gabriel—an’ I said ‘ _Gabe!_ We have to do... something about this’-” He gestured vaguely around with the hand not holding his drink. “The French one—an’ the German one – they’re jus- just.” The angel fumbled over his words, the forgot them, “An’-”

“Hang on,” said Crowley, blinking owlishly at him. “ _Gabe?_ You—you called the arseangel Gabriel— _Gabe?_ ”

Aziraphale waved him off, but a lazy smile was present on his face. “He hates it.” The angel began to giggle mindlessly. Crowley joined in, more for his own jab than the angel’s, feeling a subtle strike of happiness at their closeness in the impending evening—he had no clue what time it was, if it was even that late at all; all he vaguely recalled was Aziraphale wanting a drink at just after lunch, and now it was dark outside—it didn’t get dark until nine, so a solid seven hours of bantering and drinking sounded about right. As far as Crowley was concerned, there was nothing wrong with that when you had eternity.

They calmed down a few moments later, revelling in the basking glory of alcohol. Crowley, although considerably too drunk to be coherent, thought he remembered tasting the first summer wines way back in history; in his opinion, it was the single greatest accomplishment of humanity.

“I,” said Aziraphale suddenly, a look of subtle seriousness winding on to his features. “I – I miss the-the Garden sometimes.” His tone dragged at the end, and he looked over at Crowley with dark, unfocused eyes. “It was so easy back—back then.”

“You looked really – really cute back then,” Crowley attempted words, smiling at him. “I mean, when – when you told me, on the wall, that you’d given away the—the bloody sword.”

“Was not bloody,” Aziraphale corrected, a slight blush heating his cheeks. “Was flaming—‘sides, Uriel had-had one, too. I-I don’t see what the big deal was...”

“Really?” Crowley wrinkled his nose. “An’-”

Aziraphale butted in, suddenly filled with a need to speak, “That-that’s the thing, right? You-you know—there I was, standing there wit’ you, next thing I-I know – there’s Michael! An-and Uriel, and—well, well you... know the, uh, the rest.”

Crowley blinked at him, lolling his head to the left. “Uh?”

“You don’t—you don’t remember? When—when I was, uh, guarding the gate?”

“Badly, you mean?” Crowley asked, a snicker in his tone.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to find it funny; his face was contorted, thinking hard. Crowley had seen the expression before, he thought, just once or twice, when Aziraphale was trying to recall something – memories, feelings, book titles. “I-I was... I was not a bad guard, you know,” said Aziraphale, staring off into the distance. “Back—back before... Before...” He clicked his tongue.

“Wha?” Crowley asked, putting the bottle down. “You—you’ve got that, uh, that look, angel—in your eyes.”

“What look?” Aziraphale asked, putting a hand to his head. Before Crowley could answer, the angel was speaking again, “There was—there was the, uh... The Fall – the humans, an’ the sin—the apple, but there was... There was...” He trailed off, turning his head to look at his shelf with the Bibles – the ones Crowley had often heard the angel talk about at length; the errors in them, the ones he enjoyed collecting and, sometimes, reading aloud. They’d had a few chuckles about it.

But now, Aziraphale was looking at them differently. He stood up, stumbled, and managed to get to his desk; he pulled out one book, and then another, flicked through them while beginning to hum.

As far as Crowley could tell, it was _Queen_ ’s _Old Fashioned Lover Boy_ , but he didn’t want to presume – especially when drunk. It still made him smile; one corruption at a time and all that tosh.

“I was...” Aziraphale blinked a couple of times, as he laid the Bible flat and turned a few pages. He stood to his full height and looked back at Crowley. “When... When... When did we—we meet?”

Crowley broke into fistfuls of laughter, laying back into the sofa again. “Adam an’ Eve – the apple, I tol’ ‘em to eat it—and then, then they were cast out.”

“When—when did I give them the sword?” Aziraphale asked, sounding a little less drunk. One of the bottles refilled, but it still left the angel looking tipsier than this conversation warranted. “They—they were being banished, dear, and I... I watched them leave—the storm, she was pregnant.” Aziraphale picked up his book and plopped himself back into the chair in front of the table.

Crowley opened his eyes against his better judgement and looked across at him, but the angel was absorbed, his eyes flicking back and forth over the page. “C’mon,” the demon muttered into his arm. “You-you should know that book... word-by-word.” He pushed through his drunken stupor, wanting to be helpful, but he couldn’t fathom why Aziraphale was getting so hung up on ancient history.

“I do,” said Aziraphale in a small voice, and then, “Crowley, dear.”

The book closed between the angel’s hands, and Crowley raised an eyebrow at the deep expression in the other’s eyes. “What? What-what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale sat back, miracling a pencil to chew idly. “I’m a principality.”

“Yep,” Crowley replied, popping the ‘p’ with a satisfied sigh.

The silence was charged, electric almost; the angel’s Light was burning furiously all a sudden, and caused the demon to shirk against the sofa before somewhere in the back of his mind his head was supplied with _Aziraphale_. Aziraphale was not going to hurt him—Aziraphale was one of Her greatest creations; he’d been made to love endlessly, and to harm no creature – not even demons.

But still, the pulsing of energy about them was almost too much.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said into the discomfort, his voice wavering between drunk and something else—something more restless. “Principalities don’t guard gates.”

Crowley stiffened. It took him a moment to turn around from where he’d snuggled into the sofa. “Wha’ do you mean?” He sat up, arms trembling beneath his small weight, looking at the angel through narrowed, small eyes; he wanted to have a snooze himself now, nightmares be damned. “You’re a—a principality.”

“I guide an’ take care of Her creations,” Aziraphale said, the ups and downs of his voice still laced with alcohol. “I—I think I should sober up... I... I hadn’t...”

Crowley fell on to his face with a groan. “Ah thought ya said we didn’t ‘ave to?” he mumbled into the softest cushion he’d ever felt, rubbing his tired face against it; his time in the country hadn’t been as restful as he’d wanted and hoped it would be, what with his head being so incessantly loud all the time. “Aziraphale?”

“Ye-yes, dear?”

 _Still sounds drunk_ , thought Crowley, not sure why he found that comforting. “Why are you—you thinkin’ about this? Is this—is this abou’ your nightmare?”

Aziraphale gave a sounding hum in response.

“Fin’, then we should sober up an’ talk abou’ this,” said Crowley, and he let the wave of unpleasantness wash over him for a few minutes, waiting for his head to clear before he sat up and slapped his lips, tasting the wine on his tongue, but bitterer and this was why they didn’t use cheap plonk. “Oh, that _taste_.”

Aziraphale groaned, the sound sending a shockwave through Crowley at the harshness of it. He turned to see his angel was sitting slumped over, staring in puzzlement at the book in his lap. “Uh, angel?” Crowley said, soft and low to avoid the throbbing headache settled at his frontal lobe. “Why’ve you got a Bible in your lap?”

Looking up, Aziraphale said, “We were – we were talking about it? Something to do with it? My dear, I think I drank more than you—can you not remember it? What we were just talking about?”

Crowley looked at him, lips pursed and, after a moment of reflection, he shook his head. “Not at all? You can’t remember? I mean, your nightmare? Something about a nightmare?”

“That’s right – I had a nightmare,” said Aziraphale, clicking his fingers harmlessly. “I remember that—did I... I didn’t? We didn’t talk about that, did we?” Fear bloomed in his eyes like marigolds in the summer, and he suddenly stared at the Bible very differently, as if merely touching the cover would leave him burnt.

Trying to recall, Crowley bit his lip. “You just said it was a nightmare...” A small smile took up his face suddenly, and he openly stared at his confused angel. “You used to call Gabriel, _Gabe_.”

A blush as bright as red war poppies splashed over Aziraphale’s face. “Once or twice! He hates it.” A shiver ran down his spine and he stood up, wobbling as was customary after diluting his blood of alcohol, to return the Bible to its faithful spot on the desk’s shelf. “I really can’t remember what we were talking about.” He rubbed his head. “It’s almost like – like a block, oh dear...”

Crowley rubbed his eyes. “Eh. It’ll come to us in a few hours, I’m sure.”

“Yes, quite right,” said Aziraphale, and he looked over at Crowley with something akin to _haunted_ in his eyes, trying desperately to grasp his memories together. “I’m sure you’re right, dear... It’ll come to me.”

It wouldn’t.


	3. Coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wants to help. Aziraphale thinks he doesn't need it.
> 
> He takes a moment to reflect, and decides he probably does.

Aziraphale spent the next day and a half recovering fully from his nightmare, listening intently to the undertones of Beethoven and the chimes of Sibelius’s _Finlandia_. The sensation of falling kept him on his feet all day – he took a walk to the bakery down the street; the wonderful girl in there ventured to ask if he’d been sleeping, and he tried to mimic a human response to her question—something like yes, something like no; in between was where human sensibilities lay, and how they often liked everyone else to be also.

On the way back, he swooned.

Thankfully, there was a building to catch him. He slumped into it, gasped at the splinter of pain in his head, and accepted the help of two teenagers who paused to ask whether he was all right. They were kind to him, though Aziraphale would later be found grumbling to Crowley about it as they walked the familiar path through St James Park.

Crowley, however, seemed rather stuck on the actual _swoon_ part. “You had a dizzy spell, you mean?” he asked, eyeing the angel with the same utmost care he’d given Aziraphale since that drunken conversation neither of them could remember. “Angels can get those? I never got those...”

“I’ve never heard of it happening – no less had it happen to me,” said Aziraphale in response, stuffily emptying his pockets to the ducks. “I mean, I understand 6000 years is quite old for a body-”

“Aziraphale, angel,” Crowley began softly, as they paused at the ice cream vendor; the same one they’d had on that fateful day, when they thankfully _had_ chosen their faces wisely. He doubted the mortal remembered them. He left the chat hanging as he paid for the ice creams, walking across to Their Bench (it was definitely theirs; it wasn’t usually there otherwise) where they sat down on their respective sides and stared out at the noisy ducks going about their ducking leaves. “Angel,” Crowley began again, drawing the other’s strayed attention. “I think we should talk, you know, about this nightmare of yours.”

Aziraphale remained quiet, staring out at the ducks as he took a long, languid lick of his ice cream. Although prim and proper as ever, the angel had been more slumped since that night, and Crowley could feel himself tensing every second Aziraphale looked about ready to say something. It took a few minutes until he finally said, “I looked it up, you know, ducks do have a _type_ of ear.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley tried to keep the warmth out of his voice, remembering the only pleasant thing about _that day_ a couple hundred years back; that silly comment about the ducks made in haste instead of fidgeting, as he’d stared at the angel from the corner of his eye and seen his expression darken at being asked to give a demon holy water. He shuddered now, thinking of how it must have looked, when all he’d been thinking about was – in a rational sense – them, and the future. He’d tried to explain it once or twice, mainly with a drunken head and a truthful mouth, but Aziraphale always brushed it off.

He knew he’d never be given access to holy water again, especially since Aziraphale had seen the damage it had done to Ligur that telltale night the angel had come back to his and they’d discussed what to do about choosing their faces—what it meant. His angel had figured it out first, of course, having been hopping bodies all day, but Crowley hadn’t been exactly slow; demons were a smart bunch, you know.

(Most anyway.)

A sigh beside him drew Crowley’s attention straight to Aziraphale; the angel was still licking his ice cream long and slow, the movement delightfully sinful, not that he was probably aware of it. “I’m serious, Aziraphale; something is obviously wrong.”

“What’s wrong,” said Aziraphale, suddenly, swallowing. “Is Heaven is punishing me— _She_ is punishing me.”

Crowley crossed an arm over his chest and raised his eyebrows. “No. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, She is.” Aziraphale shook his head at Crowley’s dismissal. “Heav—Go— _Whatever_ forbid I am actually allowed a moment’s peace...” His voice trailed, and then started back up again, “Guard the gate, Aziraphale! Look after the humans, Principality! Go do this miracle, save this one—oh, she’s one of ours; she can _die!_ ” The uplift of tension came out in a quick and flippant sob, but there were no tears to dry, and the angel looked angrier than sad, “Be at this thing, make sure this happens, do this, do that – Oh, look, here come the End of Time! Be there in a jiffy—shall we fight a war? Well? Do I have any _bloody choice?_ It’s not like I have free will!” Aziraphale looked heavenward, a scowl settling on his subdued features which had steadily grown darker. “Isn’t that right? Oh, I’m not allowed to _ask that_ , am I?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley calmed as a mother and her son passed them, the woman looking decidedly confused by the two men’s conversation. He shot her a charmed smile, and she dutifully blushed; _eh, the perks of being a demon_. He turned back to Aziraphale and reached, before thinking better of it and letting his hand drop between them on to the bench. “We saved earth because we enjoy earth, right? That’s our side of it.”

“Yes, yes – I know, dear.” Aziraphale flapped his wrist obscenely at the demon, who recoiled slightly when the tip of an index finger hit his nose. “My head’s been everywhere since-”

“Since the nightmare, yes,” Crowley interrupted, turning his long body to face the angel, leaning back against the armrest of the bench. “So, _let’s talk about it_.”

Aziraphale tutted and threw him a look—then another. He sat as proper as anyone like him should. “I... Crowley.”

“No, no. No.” Crowley waved a hand at him. “I know that tone – that’s the ‘you go too fast’ tone, and the ‘my side wouldn’t like that’ tone (Crowley, of course, mimicked Aziraphale’s voice in the tone) that’s the Reign of Terror tone—the bloody _crepes_ tone.” He downed his glasses just enough to look directly at the angel, who didn’t even flinch from the boredom settled in the demon’s eyes. “Look. I’m not having this conversation if you want to talk to me in that tone.”

The embarked silence afterwards made for an uncomfortable air between the two. Aziraphale was staring, openly, but guarded; the line of his lip stiffened and he pressed into a frown, jolting one shoulder. “Well—well, maybe I- Maybe I don’t want the conversation.”

Crowley replaced his glasses and slung himself back against the bench, scrunching up his nose. He breathed a couple of times, letting the tension between them drain out like the sewers into the Thames. Moving his attention to the ground, Crowley listened to his angel’s habitual noises and shuffles, controlling the movement of his head as he longed to slump to the side and look at the prim and proper Englishman-angel beside him.

But instead he took to staring less than politely at Aziraphale’s legs, sweeping his eyes over them and up to the pudge of his belly. Further up, finally, he saw the angel’s classic outline – the worrier one, the tense one, the _Crowley-wants-to-help-me-so-why-can’t-I-let-him_ one—Crowley had invented the last one from the countless times they’d sat together and stared without seeing.

“You do,” Crowley replied, flicking his eyes to Aziraphale’s face; the angel’s eyes, though always moving, were focused on him from the corner, surveying Crowley’s turned position on the bench. He quirked his lip, and immediately a faint blush reddened his angel’s cheeks. “But fine. How about we come back to it? Hm?” Despite how despairingly he wanted Aziraphale to talk about the dream, he was getting absolutely nowhere; if anything, his constant pressuring might drive him away – like last time. Crowley shuddered to think about last time, the image of standing in the bookshop as the fire ebbed around him like the lifeblood of an arsonist. “What if... we have dinner? At _Rules_? Instead of the Ritz. We haven’t been there in ages.”

“Decades,” Aziraphale corrected, his eyes distancing from the conversation as he doubtlessly thought back to their last meal there together. “I suppose- I suppose we are due; I can hardly still go on recommending its menu if the last time we ate there was in the sixties.”

Crowley sat up properly and slapped his thighs. “Great! Tonight?”

“Oh, uh... Yes? Yes.” Aziraphale blinked a few times, lost to his head, before he managed to get himself into a standing position. “Yes, actually, that would be quite all right with me. I can open the bookshop for a few hours...” His jaw slackened.

Crowley knew the face well, or at least he hoped he did. He patiently waited for his angel to say whatever else was on his mind. Inhaling a quick breath, Aziraphale finally said, “Crowley, thank you. I... I think I’ve realised that... I’m—I’m looking for answers to certain- certain questions which I’m not sure I should be asking. It’s taking a lot out of me, my dear boy.”

“Questions are meant to be asked, angel,” said Crowley, softer than he meant to, but sensing somewhere in the back of his thoughts being gentle would encourage his angel far more in his current state. He pressed his mouth into a smile and added, “I mean, why else have grammar – a question mark – specifically used to ask questions, if God doesn’t want you to ask anything?”

Aziraphale smiled at him kindly, his eyes tired – his eyes were always tired at the moment, wearing his age and the history with it. “Why indeed put an apple tree in the middle of a garden if not to let the hungry eat.”

“I might have tempted them, Aziraphale,” said Crowley into the afternoon sunlight, his glasses reflecting the nature surrounding them. “But... I think, eventually, Eve would have taken the apple anyway.”

Aziraphale tensed, but then let his shoulders roll out and relax. “Ineffable,” he muttered into his collar, blue eyes staring down. “Humans are an inquisitive bunch, dear.”

They parted soon after, agreeing for Crowley to pick Aziraphale up. As the demon walked the other way, he tossed a glance over his shoulder at his angel and shook his head. _I wish you’d let me help you._

###### 

Aziraphale arrived back at the bookshop and ignored the few loiters outside next door; it was obvious they were on a bookshop crawl, hoping to trample into his next. The thought sent an unpleasant shiver through him. Instead of opening as he’d told Crowley he would, he bolted the door shut and left the lights off, moving seamlessly towards the backroom to sit down at his desk. As he’d done every other time he’d settled down in the past few days, he miracled a cocoa (he still found them unpleasant, but needs must) and took out the Bible—the one he’d sobered up with in his lap the other evening.

The forgotten conversation with Crowley plagued his every moment. It niggled his head this way and that when he tried to think of it, constantly on the edge of remembering and then, all of sudden, he’d feel a faint shift—hear a beat of static—and be back to square one. Aziraphale knew what was happening, but he couldn’t explain it – it, of course, being as much ineffable as the rest of his life – but it was the very same mechanism Heaven deployed against prying humans who got a little too close to knowing the truth.

It was a _block_ – a purposeful, divine block – meant to subdue and lead thoughtful minds away from wondering too much about things which would cause a rather nasty breakage and end in death. Aziraphale shivered.

He’d never experienced one himself, though he knew some angels did if they stumbled into information they weren’t meant to—which, by definition, meant he knew something.

Something someone either didn’t want him to know or something he wasn’t meant to. He slumped forwards in his chair and raised his fingers to massage his temples. “Ah.” Downing his eyes to the Bible, Aziraphale relented from his position at the desk and stood up to throw the cold cocoa away and make himself one instead; perhaps bringing a little of his own brand of normalcy would help.

As the kettle boiled, Aziraphale leant against the counter and crossed his arms, flicking his eyes upwards like it might offer him some remarkable revelation. He should know better by now.

The thought popped into his head just as the kettle whistled. _Maybe Gabriel will know_. But... there were several problems with that line of thinking – one being that Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what had been said after the Hellfire Trial. He and Crowley had suitably agreed to not contact their respective Head Offices for a couple of years, just to let everything cool off. They were still an angel and a demon after all; they had duties to Heaven and Hell on earth.

Aziraphale would have felt another angel in Britain if Heaven didn’t still count him as their Man Downstairs. The thought weighed heavily on his shoulders, dropping his head forwards as he made his cocoa, gripping the wing-shaped handle to bring it back to his desk. He checked the calendar on his way, and vaguely realised his Annual Report and Review was due in six weeks. It brought him out in tense chuckles; what exactly was he meant to write? That he foiled Armageddon? Helped avert God’s supposed Divine Plan? Had teamed-up with the opposition to stop the End of Times?

That he stopped the war Gabriel had had a hard-on for, for 6000 years?

 _No, better not_. He sat down at his desk and took out the Bible again, leafing through the fragile pages but drawing as much of a blank as he always did. Aziraphale closed it and pushed it back on to the shelf, resigned to being no further along in his thinking. He flicked his eyes up to where his windows had been, stained now with black paint after the shafts of light had left him sweating in the day after his panic attack.

With a snap of his fingers he removed it – and cleaned them – so he could stare out at the active street. It gave him the perfect view of where Crowley would park his Bentley later, and the thought brought a slight smile to the angel’s expression; he briefly considered if it was some subconscious intervention, that Aziraphale should place his desk just as such so he could always see when the demon arrived, or if perhaps it was one of those subtler, more human-natured miracles.

Coincidences, Aziraphale thought the word might be.

The demon invaded his thoughts as he settled back to drink his cocoa and watch the world flit by – all the humans about today had equal expressions of annoyed and thoughtful, something Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice was similar to how Crowley often wore his face; constructed into something which said both “I have a lot of things to do” and “I don’t want to do them.” It caused the angel to let out a chuckle, a smile eclipsing his frown as he let the tension roll off his shoulders.

Drinking the last slurp of his perfect-temperature drink, Aziraphale set the cup to one side and thought, _Crowley cares about me—I can feel it, when I’m with him_. It would be easier if he didn’t hide his eyes; the windows to the soul, of course, were the eyes. Aziraphale had only once said something similar to the demon and been barked at for insinuating _"something like Crowley"_ had a soul.

In the garden and with the ark, he’d only briefly caught glimpses of Crowley’s eyes, as they’d both been far too guarded in those days to let anything so foolish as feelings beyond teasing – and, in one case, astonishment – cloud up one another’s ability to think.

Aziraphale had wondered, never asked, if demons had a soul, even if it was damned. He’d gotten his answer that night, when Crowley had pulled off his glasses and chucked them on the table during one of their many times drinking away their feelings and talking stupidly, and Aziraphale had very quickly attempted to sober up—so quickly he nearly threw up from the rancid aftertaste, and then he’d looked into those dazed, thinking eyes and seen Crowley for what he was; for his gentle, if damaged soul, for all his walled-in love, and his charm, his calm kindness.

Of course, there was wickedness, but not so much as to alarm the angel. In fact, he’d been taken aback by just how _beautiful_ Crowley’s soul had been; it had led him into wondering, into thinking about the angel Crowley had been—neither of them had recollection of his angelic times, unfortunately, so even if they’d met beforehand the mists of their history were concealed well.

Since then, Aziraphale had chanced a glance at Crowley’s eyes whenever he could—he’d seen colours there, spectrums of warm greys and fiery reds, blossom pinks, natural greens—and with every look he ventured, every moment Crowley seemed more and more comfortable with removing his sunglasses, Aziraphale fell more and more in love with the fallen soul full of so much light, the hairline cracks in the wall around the demon’s most personal emotions seeming to give a little more each time.

Though he loved wine, Aziraphale was sure that given enough time he could get drunk on Crowley’s serpentine stare. The sinful thoughts he often pushed down with only a brief flush of colour to his cheeks had been becoming more and more difficult to rid himself of as time went on, and Crowley at least partly knew the attraction was there—the way he sometimes smiled, dipped his head, walked a little closer than he needed to.

He was a demon after all; it was in his nurtured nature to tempt. But Aziraphale wasn’t prepared to call himself unattractive either; indeed he’d made his personality charming over the decades, invited in traits he thought were interesting and merged them into his character seamlessly. If Crowley liked a stubborn bite now and again, Aziraphale knew exactly how best to give it.

Before long, the streets of Soho were clearing of modern-day mummies and studious teenagers looking to get back to their dorm after a last coffee run. Aziraphale watched the nightlife of his London begin to wake up, and soon after he saw the smooth Bentley pull up across the street and the lanky demon open his door to get out, brushing off invisible lint.

Aziraphale switched off his desk light (which he’d turned on only to avoid tiring out his eyesight) and made to get his coat, straightening his collar while shrugging the old garment over his shoulders. He corrected his bowtie just as the doors opened themselves to Crowley, who had his fingers ready to click but stared with an ‘o’ expression instead. “Can’t say I’ve ever been invited in like that,” he said, a lazy smile accompanying the sleekness of himself in the bathed lights of London flooding into the shop. “You ready, angel?”

“Quite I am, dear,” said Aziraphale, his voice uplifted, and he walked over to join Crowley in the doorway, stepping out into the street together. Aziraphale snapped his fingers to close the door behind them, not wanting to bother with fumbling about for a key right now.

“You seem in a better mood,” Crowley remarked as they crossed the empty road and he held open the door, gesturing Aziraphale into the Bentley.

“I... I am, dear boy. I’m feeling rather tip-top, actually.” Aziraphale settled into the comfortable seat, clasping his hands together in what he might have once thought as prayer, but now reminded him simply of habit. After a moment, he let them fall apart and into his lap. “I’m looking forward to dinner.”

“Of course you are, angel,” said Crowley, starting the car and putting it into drive to take them towards Rules. “And I think a table with a great view just came free.”

Though they usually spoke at length during their car rides, tonight the air was filled with the same unbidden tension Aziraphale had felt since breaking down in front of Crowley in the shop. He decided, then and there, he hated how the demon looked stressed; it just didn’t suit his sharp features. “Dear,” said the angel, causing the other to look away from the road- “Crowley! You almost hit a cyclist!”

“They’re in the wrong lane, angel; not my fault.” Crowley was still looking at him, an eyebrow arched as he waited for Aziraphale to say something else—because Aziraphale knew his _tone_ invited something else. “What is it, angel? What’s up? Did something happen?”

“No, no. Well.” Aziraphale inhaled, leant into the seat and finally let the clouds around them disperse, “I... I think it's important I... I want- I want to tell you about my nightmare.”

Crowley nearly crashed at the words, but thankfully the Bentley knew it shouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this yet, but I actually quite like this chapter and didn't want to think over it too much.  
> I'm still fumbling a bit with Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship; it's such a deep bond, with a lot of hard-earned respect between them, and I'm still figuring out how I can best write it within the confines of my plotline.
> 
> I'm still working out a schedule - for this, and _An Unknown Edge_ \- but I'm aiming to post the next chapter on Sunday. Thank you for reading!


	4. Rules and Holy Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gives Aziraphale an idea - a possibility.
> 
> He grasps on to it like a dead man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I've never been to _Rules_ , or any fancy eateries, so my knowledge is confined to daydreaming, _James Bond_ and _Tripadvisor_ reviews.

Aziraphale recounted the nightmare in glorying detail. Crowley listened carefully and drove through London at 50mph; the slowest he’d gone for what he thought might be decades, but he was far too involved in digesting Aziraphale’s words and putting them into careful boxes to be thinking about getting to dinner all that quickly.

“And—well, it sounds like the end of a silly sitcom, but then I woke up.” Aziraphale’s hands were moving tensely, turning his palms out in something resembling a shrug. “I... I had the panic attack then.” The strength in the angel gave out, his hands falling into his lap as he leant securely back into the car’s plush seating. “Honestly, I thought I’d been asleep for months – but I checked; it was barely 72 hours, Crowley. And then, of course, I just lay on the floor for another two days thinking...”

“I’m sorry, Angel,” said Crowley, flicking his eyes down to look at Aziraphale’s fidgeting fingers. He nearly reached out to grasp them, but in the dark of the car he was at least trying to keep one eye on the road even if he knew his Bentley wouldn’t dare crash. He begrudgingly tore himself away from the thought, a hot wave of shame washing over him. “An’ I was out in the country feeling sorry for myself; dammit.”

“You were?” Aziraphale asked with quiet concern, and Crowley tensed his hands on the wheel, suddenly realising he’d never actually told Aziraphale where he’d been or why he’d gone. Truthfully, he didn’t know much else than what he’d just offhandedly muttered; he'd just needed to get away and put the world into perspective.

Crowley nodded a few times, ignoring the eye contact his angel—damn, he should kick the habit—the angel was asking for. “Went across to Bristol, Bath, down to Brighton. I was about to leave for Manchester when I-” _felt something like a scream in my damned soul and came home_. “-when I remembered I hadn’t left my plants with the sitter.” Crowley threw a fleeting and fake grin at Aziraphale’s concerned, blinking eyes.

If he hadn’t been driving, he’d have smacked himself for that remark—leaving plants with a sitter? OK, so he’d done it once during a _long_ temptation he’d needed to cover over in Ireland, but his plants had come back a little too loved for him to consider doing it again.

It also wasn’t normal, and there was a difference between eclectic-normal and weird-normal to humans.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, too long after the comment had gone. He folded himself into his seat further and hung his head, though he was always watching the road, ready to reprimand Crowley’s driving. “I’m worried I’ve upset Heaven.”

“Heaven’s had a stick up its arse for centuries,” Crowley replied, happy to be on familiar, jab-for-a-jab territory. “Hell’s got one too, but they find it kinky.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale admonished, but he couldn’t – or rather, didn’t – stop his lips from twitching upwards. “I appreciate your words, dear, but... But this is serious.”

Crowley softened, slumping in his seat as they turned the corner. “I know, Angel. Humour is deflective an’ all that.” He scowled at the road. “’Suppose I’m just as nervous as you about this, huh? What can I say to make it better? What can I do?”

Aziraphale was quiet for a time, as they continued to drive at what amounted to a reasonable pace for the demon. Clasping his hands in his lap, the angel let out a long sigh and responded, “You don’t need to say a thing, my dear, and I – I don’t know... I don’t think you can do anything-”

“I can talk to Hell. Maybe they’ll know.”

“Crowley, listen to yourself.” Aziraphale looked at him and saw himself reflected back from the blackness of Crowley’s glasses. “This is—this.” He pressed his hands together in prayer and looked up at the roof of the Bentley. “May-maybe I can—maybe I could ask a _higher authority_.”

 _Because that worked SO well the last time, Angel!_ Crowley bit back his comment and clenched the steering wheel, taking them around a corner at 80mph and ending the conversation with the angel shrieking from the sudden propulsion.

Crowley nursed a coffee as Aziraphale finished off his dessert. As ever, _Rules_ was busy with a constant stream of people coming and going, this way and that. The demon snapped his fingers and watched as a particularly annoying server dropped her tray over an old gentleman who’d been nothing but vile all evening.

Aziraphale didn’t even give him a look, which Crowley was thankful for; he knew his angel hadn’t been oblivious to the man’s torments of the staff. 

As the evening wound down, and Crowley helped Aziraphale into his coat, absentmindedly brushing off some specks of dirt from one shoulder, he broached the subject they’d been avoiding all evening, “So, this holy water – from your dream.”

“Yes, Crowley?” Aziraphale replied, removing a couple extra notes from his pocket to add to the tip.

“Well, just wondering really – have you tried, uh... Have you tried making some?” Crowley downed one edge of his glasses to give the angel a complicated stare. “Maybe an idea to brew up a batch, and test it? We could be reading much further into this dream than what it really is—coulda just been a nightmare 'cause you never usually sleep.”

Aziraphale gave him an uncertain look, and then shook his head. “While I see your point, Crowley... I do think there is something at play here, especially since this happened so soon after we, uh, _took our overdue vacation time_ , as it were.” He pressed a fist to his mouth all the same as they walked towards the door – waving briefly their goodbyes to the staff. Crowley strode quickly ahead, opening it for Aziraphale and leaving after him, catching up to walk at his side.

“I haven’t tried making any holy water since-” Aziraphale cut himself off and _tsk_ ’d, giving a less than subtle shake of the head. “Anyway... I’d need to find my books.”

Crowley blinked at him behind his glasses. “You can’t remember how to _make_ holy water?”

“Well, there are just so many things to remember these days, my dear!” Aziraphale sputtered, sleepless eyes wide in the evening light of the moon and her stars. “You can’t possibly expect me to remember the formula for _everything_ angelic.”

“Angel, no offence, but you can remember word-for-word almost every description of the Ritz menu,” Crowley replied, patting his Bentley as they arrived. He flicked his hand at the parking ticket before Aziraphale could clock it, opening the door to let his angel slide in.

Aziraphale _humpf_ ed, but didn’t rise to it. Instead, he remarked, “You picked a good spot – no ticket, hm?”

Crowley let an easy smile pass over his expression as he slipped into the driver’s side and replied, “I did tell you I was fine to park here—when you don’t have a car, Angel, I can understand how all the signs might be confusing.”

The side-glance was enough of a reply, as Aziraphale settled into the seat, resting his head back. He closed his eyes. Crowley stared at him as he started the motor, eyes flicking over the gentle curve of the other’s milky-white neck, up to his frowning lips. The alcoholic warmth surrounding them was nearly enough to warrant possibility, but the demon quickly banished those thoughts and cleared his throat, checking his mirrors as he pulled into the nearly deserted road. “Angel, you’re sleeping.”

“I’m not,” Aziraphale replied, though he kept his eyes firmly shut. “I’m trying a new approach to your driving.” A laugh bubbled in his throat, and his eyes slid open softly; there was tiredness there, built up from thousands of years, but the gentle _otherness_ was present too.

Crowley wanted badly to know what that otherness was, but it would have to wait. He turned back to the road and took them speeding through London to Soho and back to the bookshop.

When they arrived and Crowley parked up, Aziraphale invited him in for a glass of port to round-out the evening in their usual fashion. “Sure, but it better be the good stuff.” Crowley snapped his fingers at the Bentley and it locked with a quick flash of the headlights. “I can still taste that cheap shite.”

“It wasn’t very drinkable, was it?” Aziraphale responded, though the question was open-ended and they both knew the answer. “No cheap plonk tonight, dear. I have a simply delightful vintage...”

Aziraphale turned on the lights as they came in, and the heating shuddered into working order with a groan. As the angel went in search of the bottle, Crowley took the moment to check his mobile. He shifted through his contacts and, finally, came up with _Bookgirl_. Checking the digital clock, he reasoned she’d probably be awake doing her witch-like activities (she just wouldn’t know why, when she could happily be in bed with Dick - or whatever his name was). Pressing his thumb down on her name, he brought the phone to his ear and dialled.

When Aziraphale ducked back in two minutes later, Crowley pointed at his phone and waved him off. “Well, Anathema, we met a few weeks ago in Tadfield – my friend and I stole your book...”

Turning away from the conversation, Aziraphale left to the backroom where he placed the bottle on the table and carefully rearranged Crowley’s pillow assortment for something to do, but – to his ears – it sounded as if Crowley had gotten himself into a rather long and possibly draining conversation. Aziraphale, with a prickling sensation settling in his fingers, realised he had time, which was a dangerous concept to a curious mind.

Moving over to a discreet cupboard, Aziraphale bent down and slowly opened it to reveal the small, portable stoup. It used to function as a handy tool in warzones and disaster-struck areas, but the angel had regulated it to the cupboard a few years ago when he’d been given notice holy water blessings were to be used more sparingly. Too many people had been getting suspicious on why a light rain – seemingly only affecting them – was causing long-term illnesses to seemingly vanish overnight.

No matter what Crowley might think, some people still noticed how odd reality behaved sometimes.

Gathering his courage, Aziraphale took out the stoup; he brushed a hand over the cherubs, feeling the holiness vibrate over his skin. He clicked his fingers and steadily a small pool of water started to appear in the bottom, slowly filling the stoup halfway. He placed it carefully on an unoccupied table and breathed in deeply.

Listening for Crowley, Aziraphale wrung his hands and glanced about him, trying to find some reason not to do it; not to make the holy water, not to test the demon’s theory. It had bugged him since Crowley had fleetingly mentioned it: could it have all been a mistake? Could the dream have manifested simply due to Aziraphale’s extra tiredness?

Hovering a hand over the water, Aziraphale took in a shallow breath and started to speak, “O God, Creator of all things, by water and the Holy Spirit you have given the universe its beauty and fashioned us in your own image.” Aziraphale bit away from the more traditional Latin texts, mainly so he didn’t have to consult his books; he might not have been telling Crowley the entire truth earlier, but it had been most of it.

The thing was, as Aziraphale knew, the more modern the version, the less ‘holy’ the water tended to be as words were constructed differently and faith drew away from what it had been. Still, this would be fine. This would be holy enough for him to see if...

Aziraphale breathed in through his nose and clenched his teeth. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out towards the water and uncurled his fist, allowing a single finger to dip down towards the liquid. He held his breath, the only sound surrounding him the faint and distant noise of Crowley on the telephone. _With Crowley here, if something goes wrong..._ The thought caused his eyes to close and a frown to stretch his lips.

He placed the pad of his finger on to the water.

Searing heat shot through his hand at first contact and he wrenched it back to cradle his blistered finger—he chanced a glance and saw, to his magnifying confusion, how dark welts began to spread over his hand, discolouring his fleshy palm with blackening, burnt skin. Aziraphale stared as they tempered, bubbling over his hand before coming to a painful stop just past his wrist.

Raising his eyes to the seemingly docile holy water, the angel felt every ounce of strength escape him and, with a drawing gasp, he collapsed on to the floor with a sob and, “Heav—Heavens!”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s footsteps picked up and not a second later the demon appeared in the doorway, standing in the stark silence as he ripped off his sunglasses and threw himself on to the floorboards. “What—What the Hell happened, Aziraphale?” His phone was gone, chucked somewhere in the shop when he’d abandoned his conversation at the screech from the backroom.

Sitting with Aziraphale on the floor, his eyes roamed to where the angel was clasping his hand—angry, long and red marks hidden beneath a concealing fist. “Let me see,” Crowley demanded, reaching.

Aziraphale jerked away from him, tears pressing into his eyes. “No!” He put his palm down and yelped at the contact, falling with a jolt on to his side and letting out a groan of complicated pain—of twisting, fighting emotion. “You—you can’t!”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley bit out, straddling him, pulling rapid air into his lungs as he tried to get at the bruising skin. “Angel! _Let me see!_ ”

The tears filling Aziraphale’s eyes started to drip down his cheek, fast making tracks over his white skin. As Crowley bore down on him, he let out a shaky, nervous breath and turned away, giving up his hand to the demon’s prying fingers.

He waited for the gasps of horror and the shove off, the revulsion; his wilting heart could take not much more pain today, and though he fought against it, his eyelids started to droop beneath the silence surrounding them.

“Oh, Angel...” Crowley’s cool hand dragged against Aziraphale’s throbbing skin, stretching out his hand with gentle pressure from lithe fingers. “What happened? How did this—?”

“Holy – holy water,” Aziraphale muttered, using his other hand to briefly wipe his nose. “I—I tried – I tried making holy water, Crowley an’... And...” His mouth languidly opened in a tense yawn, raising himself just to breath into the demon’s shoulder out of embarrassment.

“And this is the result,” replied Crowley, raking his stare over the charred flash with an unsettled stomach. He applied a little more pressure to Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale threw his head back in a gasp.

Crowley inhaled sharply. “I can’t ease the pain—but, I can do this...” Gently, soothing warmth flooded from his fingertips and onto the angel’s palm, forcing the flesh to knit carefully over itself. It wasn’t like making the stars, his fragile memories of Heaven being contained within them, but more like sewing the galaxy and stitching the patterns of the sky.

Aziraphale’s breathing evened out into faint, huffy coughs. “It—it feels better,” he remarked, quiet, tired, looking up into Crowley’s far-away eyes. A sudden beat of panic shot through him. “You helped me! Crowley, what if Hell-”

“I don’t care,” Crowley whispered, shifting away from the angel’s lap. He pushed backwards on to the tips of his shoes and stood up, offering a hand. “C’mon.”

“What now?” Aziraphale asked, standing up. He cast a look towards the stoup, the holy water laying like a calm lake. “I have to dispose of-”

Crowley put a hand out. “No. You’re going to bed.”

“Sleep?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “No—no, Crowley. No. I can’t-”

“You’re exhausted, Aziraphale.” Crowley gestured at the sofa, snapping his fingers to summon a fluffy black duvet. “I’m going to put this shit-” he pointed at the holy water, “-down the drain and then I’ll come back here and monitor you.”

Aziraphale felt a creeping blush begin to travel up his neck, staring into the demon’s guarded eyes; his soul was walled in, his emotions in check. Aziraphale put his good hand to his heart and said, “You can’t put holy water down the drain.”

Crowley’s hands curled into fists at his side. “Angel, whatever that shit is – it isn’t holy water, because holy water _is not meant to harm angels_! Only _demons_!” He walked across to the stoup and summoned a saucepan to transfer the water into, being careful and precise; miracling gloves on to his hands when a splashing droplet nearly hit him. “Only _sinners_ , not _saints_.” He threw a steely glance at the angel and added, "Only _things like me_."

Lips trembling, Aziraphale watched as Crowley drained the stoup and grasped the handle of the pan. From one pocket, he pulled out a pair of sunglasses and fitted them quickly over his eyes. “Get on the sofa, Angel.”

“Crowley, please—please be careful with that!” Aziraphale’s head spun as he tried to take a few steps, immediately grabbing his table to balance him. The demon had already left the backroom, taking with him the peace and the quiet contentment, leaving the jolting sensation of panic behind. Aziraphale worried his lip and looked at the sofa, relenting as he made his way over to it in carefully judged steps. He fell on to the duvet, pulled it out from under him, and kicked off his shoes to get under the cover.

As a last thought, he pulled off his jacket and undid his waistcoat and bowtie, leaving them lying over the back of the sofa. Aziraphale brushed some dust off the tail, tutting at the dark smudge of dirt near the bum of his favourite coat. Resolving to deal with the implications later, he lay his head down on the pillow Crowley must have miracled, plumping it beneath his forearm as he waited for the demon to return before he’d close his eyes.

The fear manifested in him like the fiery pulse of the holy water on his hand, and he allowed himself to let out a few more sobs while alone, as Crowley disposed of his holy water – hopefully somewhere the ground would accept it, where it would benefit nature.

A horrid thought entered his head suddenly and he bolted up, the sofa slouching beneath him—what if the holy water he’d made was tainted? What if its presence in the earth destroyed swathes of grass? Poisoned animals? Hurt mortals?

He should have gotten up, should have run after Crowley and made him dispose of it somewhere proper – somewhere it could never hurt anyone, but the ache in his heart, the black dots dancing in front of eyes, was sending him under. The silence of the shop, the omnipresence of darkness creeping into his waking moments, brought Aziraphale’s head to the pillow and he not so much as drifted into sleep as he did fall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was all for his own good, apparently.  
> What that was meant to mean, no one would tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed up the overall summary of Through Heaven's Eyes to include Crowley, as I felt the old one was perhaps a little misleading as to not include him; though my focus is on Aziraphale, Crowley's role is more important than I've given it credit.  
> Please enjoy!

The stone beneath his fingers – even the ragged, blistered ones - was pleasantly warm. The wispy breeze smelt of rainfall, the aftermath of, and of apples. Aziraphale opened his eyes immediately; he knew the smell, he knew the tempting nature of it. He knew the Garden.

He scrunched up his nose, sure of himself in that moment, as his wings unfurled gently and left him in a shadow from the bearing-down sun. Aziraphale pushed himself on to one side, using his wings as balance, and reached to touch one of his primaries, nodding decidedly when his fingers skimmed through it and didn’t remove any layers of fluff. “Another dream, then.” From his small amount of research, done hastily and without precaution, he was also sure, having archived a certain level of consciousness, this was what humans considered a _lucid dream._

 _Or another nightmare. A lucid nightmare._ Aziraphale’s eyes shut at the thought, which while said in his voice, had the lint of someone else he couldn’t recognise.

Pressing his hands back to the stone, wincing at the pressure on his scarred flesh, Aziraphale sat up and hiked one leg in front of him, pushing himself up to stand. Looking around, it took a moment for the angel to realise and construct where in Eden he was—he should have known, there not being any grass or greenery surrounding him, and the stone of course.

He was on the Wall, he was at his post—the Eastern Gate. Aziraphale knew it in the air, the drop of the winds, and the rise of the clouds. This was where he’d stood with Crowley, the wily serpent, and watched Adam and Eve be banished, before the demon had taken his leave after the rain dispensed and Aziraphale had gone down to fix the wall—where he’d spoken with the Almighty, flush against the stone, hoping She would not smite him for giving away his sword.

He’d never heard from Her again, after the incident, and now thinking on it he wasn’t sure if Her abandonment had started back then, if She had seen her Principality’s stupidity and thought perhaps this was a wasted one. Aziraphale ducked his head from the sky and folded his wings.

Turning his head to the left, Aziraphale nearly leapt out of his skin at the sight of two figures standing, cloaked in Heaven’s finest silks, on the edge of the Wall, looking out at the horizon. Seemingly, they had yet to notice him, and—by the gentle arches of their wings—Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure he wanted them to. _This is not just a lucid dream,_ he thought with a chill, his eyes widening, catching a gasp in his throat. _This is_... He’d been here before, in this moment. He’d stood where he was standing, seen what he was seeing. He knew exactly who those angels were.

 _Memory. This is memory._ But what of the first dream, then? Was that the future? Or some alternate truth? Was this a part of The Plan? _Was_ there even a Plan?

His gasp had drawn their attention. The muted lines of Michael’s face hardened, and Uriel spun from their position overlooking the dunes, their lip smoothing into a frown. In their hand, a lit sword burst into flame.

“Aziraphale,” said Michael, outstretching her wings. “Why are you still here?” The prim and proper angel – perhaps even more studious than Aziraphale had once been – tipped her head and sort-of smiled at him. That is to say, if smiles were begun and ended in a faint twitch.

Aziraphale mirrored her expression. “I-I’m not entirely sure what you mean, Michael.” This scene – he knew it. It had played out before, long ago, on the Wall. He could feel the tension settled in his bones, but for what reason he hadn’t the foggiest; he was meant to be angry, he felt it thrumming through him, but he could not recall why, or even bring the emotion itself to the surface. “I don’t know why I’m here. Can you tell me?”

“Oh, cut that,” said Uriel, raising the sword. In the Divine Light of the Her, they practically glowed with all the power awarded to an Archangel, and to a Guard of the Wall. “What are you doing here, Aziraphale? You _know_ you’re not meant to be in the Garden.”

“Aren’t I?” Aziraphale responded, inwardly wincing at his chaffed tone. He and Uriel weren’t exactly on the best of terms—they never really had been. Uriel didn’t like him, they made that clear in just about every instance they were together from their babied tone to the hard edge of their outline.

And since the ‘boyfriend’ remark, Aziraphale didn’t really like them, either. But he had grown since then, and instead of standing in front of them a stutterer, boredom rose in him—a precursor to the sedated anger—and he frowned, the age lines around his face deepening. Aziraphale raised his bowed wings, the tips reaching a similar height to Michael’s. “Give me my answer.”

Michael and Uriel’s eyes flared, and the latter brandished the flaming sword towards him. “Down your wings, Principality,” Uriel growled low in their throat. “As you are now, you are no fit match for two Archangels.”

Aziraphale did not do as he was told, fanning his wings out—allowing the blazing sun to touch his feathers. For the moment, he ignored Uriel’s threat and instead focused his blues on Michael, who similarly raised her wings in defiance of his. The long paint-stripes of grey flattened against the light around them, putting Aziraphale in shadow. He didn’t mind anymore; he kept his bookshop dark to ward off customers and spent lunches dining with demons, and was deprived of Her Light—he knew, he could practically _taste_ the allure of the darkness around him.

It smelled, often, of coffee and apples and sandalwood, and _new car_. He rather liked it.

His face split into a smile, his heart thudding in his ears. He straightened his wings, his dove-white feathers shining like knives. “All I want is an answer to my question.” Aziraphale might never have directly killed someone before, but accidents happened around him quite often—sometimes there was more to it than outright killing of course, and who knew that better than angels? “Why am I here? Why is this happening?” He chose not to bite his lip.

“You ask too many questions,” said Michael, her hands clasped behind her back. “You were always the _best of them_ , and yet here you are – your curiosity will see you Fall.”

Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat. If this was a memory, if he was conscious of such and yet unable to change what was happening—what he said and thought, then somehow he had bargained. He must have, and yet nothing in his mouth wanted to bring the word out, nothing in him said that was what he did. Nothing in him said _he_ said anything.

Uriel’s hold on the sword slackened. “You’re offering no plea,” they said into the quiet air. “Michael is right, and your silence is telling— _you know_ , Aziraphale, _you know_ you’re better than them. This is why you were placed here – in the Garden – but...” Uriel’s eyes hardened. “But you’ve _still_ become like _them_.”

Michael stood her ground. “Like Azazel.”

The name burnt into Aziraphale’s heart – a faint voice in the back of his head, a dessert, a bond to the earth.

“Samael,” Michael added, shivering badly at—

 _The memory_. Aziraphale touched his head, a faint image of Michael’s wing, bent out of shape, and she was being dragged down—and he could see her through eclipsed frames of his thoughts—and then a heavenly light, and the figure on her wing was Falling to earth. It had been the first time, and the only time, he’d seen it—seen it from where he was standing on the incomplete Wall: a ball of frantic fire, limbs clawing at the sky, wings turning to blood and bone and black.

“Beelzebub,” Uriel said with distaste.

Aziraphale’s heart stopped beating for a moment, thinking of that day on the tarmac—pondering a second memory to the one in front of him. The scorching started at his heart and spread outward, pressing through his holy soul and out into his wings with a shudder. He placed a hand on his heart.

This, quite obviously, caused a great rift between him and the Archangels. “How dare you mourn!” Uriel shouted, raising their sword—“We were wrong! You _should_ have fought! You _should have chosen a side!_ ”

“Uriel!” Michael shouted above the other’s fury, her eyes wide and vibrant with energy. “Hold your tongue. Aziraphale. This is not about the past, but the present—why are you here? On the Wall? Have you come to Fall? Are you unhappy with how Heaven has preserved you?” Her wings downed slightly, but still remained pointed. “Are you not pleased to be with your precious humans?”

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Now who’s asking questions?” he rebuked, taking in her words with newfound understanding of their meaning, when obviously the age of this memory was of his own youth, was of a time when even the smell of the ground was new, when the rain did not so much as soak him but feel like love against his skin.

“Think, Principality, of how your courage looks in Her Light,” Michael replied calmly, and gestured with a wing to the edge of the Wall, to the dunes beyond. She turned her back on him and began to walk towards the edge, to look over it.

Uriel’s eyes, though narrow, flicked across to Michael and they gestured quickly for Aziraphale to join them at the edge of the Wall, at the beginning of the World. “I never asked for Heaven to do that,” he said, though it was quiet, unsure of himself—unsure of anything now, as words and sentences fell apart around him and he walked, sandal-clad, to the edge and looked down at the sands. “I never asked to be – be a Principality...” Aziraphale’s breathing dropped off as he said it, feeling his stomach on the turn.

His wings dropped down, aching, his very bones pressing and prodding and pushing against him, like something _wasn’t right_. Like something was missing. Aziraphale placed a hand to his throat and coughed—his lungs were full of smoke and soot, a burning pressure settling inside of him. “What’s going on?”

“You were one of Her special ones,” said Uriel, apparently ignoring Aziraphale’s questions. “And yet now we’ve had to do this—we never wanted to, Aziraphale, but you—you pushed us to.”

“Uriel?” Aziraphale tried to grab her attention, but it was as if the memory was unwinding around him, as though he wasn’t there anymore. Uriel was looking at— _through_ him, toward Michael.

“It had to be this way,” said Michael, her wings stretching above her as the rains started again. “If... If we had allowed Aziraphale to continue along the path, we...” Michael’s hands clenched. “We could not afford to lose _another_ , Uriel. It is better this way.”

Uriel’s wings stayed folded, the rain dappling down against their sword. “And he won’t remember.”

“You heard Gabriel.” Michael fluttered her hands at the other. “Miracles are what we do. Aziraphale’s continued existence is a miracle in and of itself, Uriel. He would thank us—and, of course, the Almighty would extend Her thanks to you, as well, for agreeing to stand upon the Wall in his place.”

Aziraphale’s head pounded with the words around him, as Michael and Uriel glitched in and out of his memory—suddenly here, suddenly there. Overlapping, moving, shouting, running—memories in motion.

Suddenly, a great breeze shuddered across the Wall and took Aziraphale by the feathers, pushed him over—and he did not fall but plummet as he watched Michael and Uriel stare downwards, down at earth, at the sand he was hurtling towards.

He flapped his wings once, twice, but they pained, pulsed and shook violently. Aziraphale grasped at the air and tried to bring himself back to the present, to bed, to Crowley, to the memory—to anything but this feeling of incomplete insecurity. “Uriel!” he shouted in the freefall. “Michael!” _Help me!_ he wanted to scream, but that was futile.

When had Heaven ever helped him?

###### 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice brought him out of it, falling awake like the first time—but there were arms around him, to stop him from crashing to the floorboards, a slim but strong body pressing him into the sofa. “Aziraphale! Angel! Wake up!”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whimpered, still choked, breathing heavy and heated as the demon’s tense arms strengthened around him, holding him down. “Crowley – dear, Crowley. I’m awake.”

“Are you?” Crowley asked, his glasses askew. He detached one hand from Aziraphale to rip them off and chuck them across the room, his serpentine eyes staring vacantly, tired, so riled up he forgot to blink. “Are you, really?”

Aziraphale pushed upwards, pulling a shaking arm from the demon’s grip to touch Crowley’s streaked face. “My dear,” he said, his stomach plummeting. “Have you been crying?”

As if on cue, another tear slid down Crowley’s cheek and hit Aziraphale’s thumb. The angel sucked in a breath and wiped it away quickly, bringing his other hand up to brush Crowley’s other cheek, to hold him tenderly, even though it made his stomach muscles shake and he soon had to lie back down. Crowley went with him, pressed flush into his side, one booted ankle lodged around Aziraphale’s socked foot. This was definitely how friends lay together on sofas.

Crowley’s head fell heavier into Aziraphale’s hands and the angel moved fingers into his short fringe, pushing it back and pulling it forwards in a calming, rhythmic motion. The silence, battered by tense breaths and beating hearts, ended when Crowley said, “I couldn’t wake you up.”

“Whatever do you mean, dear?” Aziraphale yawned into Crowley’s hair.

“You—you wouldn’t wake up.” Crowley curled himself over Aziraphale in a way which was much too close to be called _friendly_ , which seemed almost as though Crowley was trying to become Aziraphale’s duvet—which was missing, obviously snapped away. “I’ve been trying to wake you up for five days, Angel—what the Hell happened?” Although meant to be filled with their usual jab-for-jab malice, Crowley’s voice lacked the ability; instead, it came out quiet and unsure, pained.

Flustered by their contact – _so close, so close_ – Aziraphale unhooked his leg from Crowley’s, but kept his hands massaging the demon’s scalp, slow circles, slower lines, moving carefully through the hair. “I... I was – a lucid dream. A memory.” His fingers stilled. “Crowley. What does Falling feel like?”

Crowley pulled away suddenly like he’d been burned, his eyes flashing wide. He bunched himself up and away from Aziraphale, to sit on his legs, looking at the angel with history-written eyes. “Why would you want to know? What does that have to do with this? With you?”

Aziraphale stayed defiant, staring at the demon with a harshness he’d not shown him since – well, since that lapse of judgement at the bandstand. “I— Crowley. I think I might be... Falling.”

“No.”

Aziraphale immediately looked up and into Crowley’s eyes, narrowed as they were, but there was truth there; quiet and right. He wasn’t lying. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean, you aren’t Falling.” Crowley crossed his arms and looked to the left. “I would... I would _know_.”

Aziraphale grabbed a nearby cushion for something to hold, to grip, to feel beneath his palms. “But... But what if I just haven’t _finished_ Falling yet?”

Crowley pulled himself swiftly and seamlessly to his feet, walking a couple steps back. “Trust me. I would _know_ if you were Falling, _Angel_.” A full-body shiver washed over the demon, clenching his teeth. “ _Ngk!_ You just know how to pick a scab, don’t you?”

Aziraphale scrunched the cushion tighter, pushing himself around to sit with his feet on the floor. “Crowley-” He doesn’t know what to plead—or why to try. There’s no reason to; there isn’t really a point.

“I could ask Beelzebub,” Crowley replied, his voice guarded. He let out a long, somewhat troubled sigh, and pushed his glasses back on.  
_Beelzebub. _Tensing at the defensive position, Aziraphale stood up. “Cro- Crowley?” His first attempt at the name goes badly, a squeak; the second a hitch catches his tone but it’s enough. It has to be. He shifted from one foot to the other and let out a breath, his teeth finding a lip. “You... You’re incredibly upset with me, aren’t you?”__

__“No, Angel. No, I’m not,” Crowley replied. “I’m upset with _Heaven_.”_ _

__“Being upset at Heaven is being upset with me, Crowley.”_ _

__“Angel, listen to yourself,” Crowley replied, and Aziraphale’s heart struck a balance of stopping and starting—they were his words, directed back, in that same broken voice from that stupid bandstand. He tensed at the memory, raising his shoulders: If he was sure of one thing, it was this moment with Crowley was not going to end like that one. He wouldn’t allow it._ _

__Aziraphale breathed out, the beating tension around them falling like a sledgehammer. “I... don’t enjoy it,” he responded. “Listening to myself that is.” Every ounce of him wanted to walk toward the other, to grab him, to hold him, to tell him his innermost thoughts—his feelings about everything at the moment, one of which, yes, concerned _Falling_ , but he wanted that communication. Even if just to be real, to admit he was shaken from his grounding, his beliefs._ _

__He was looking for new ones._ _

__“Crowley.” He caught the demon’s attention, gawking at him. “It’s awfully late now, and I know _you_ enjoy sleeping...” Aziraphale snapped his fingers at the sofa, rearranging the cushions and summoning back the black duvet. “Would you... stay for the night? While I do research.”_ _

__Crowley looked barely like he was breathing—not that they historically needed to breathe. After a few stretched out seconds of silence, he finally said, “Uh... I don’t think that’s a good idea, Angel.”_ _

__“Why?” Aziraphale asked, his face a little flushed. Asking a man, a demon, to stay the night—what an angel he was. “I thought we were on our own side now, dear?”_ _

__Crowley’s face broke into a smile. “Nah, it was just – y’know, the plants.”_ _

__“You can’t call your sitter to pop in on them?” Aziraphale preened at him, his smile shaking, trying in vain to make himself seem serious, but it was a difficult thing when Crowley was starting up a fierce blush of his own._ _

__“Ya know what, I’m sure they’ll be fine.” Crowley stretched his mouth in an open yawn, which he covered after a second thought on the matter, moving over to the sofa. “Maybe it’s this old thing,” he tried, giving it a kick. “Maybe it’s imbued with bad spirits or something. With all the times I’ve slept on it, it’s probably my fault you’re getting these nightmares, Angel.”_ _

__“Oh, it could never be your fault, dear,” said Aziraphale, walking back over as Crowley slipped beneath the covers and immediately relaxed under them, tired out from the drain of the last few days. “I’m going to continue my research.” He patted the demon’s hand._ _

__Crowley’s fingers snaked around his wrist, pulling him down. “Angel, pop m’glasses off, will you?”_ _

__Aziraphale sighed and did as told, using the hand not gripped to take the glasses off and fold them with the cover’s help, reaching around to place them on a side table. “There. Now sleep, Crowley, and when you wake up you’ll have had the loveliest of dreams.”_ _

__“Angel, if you can tell me that, why not yourself?” asked Crowley into the ensuing silence, laying his head back on the fluffed pillow._ _

__“My dear,” said Aziraphale, taking his hand back to card through Crowley’s hair, waiting until he fell asleep before he added, “I’m too scared to, I think, because would I ever be able to wake up from a life with you?” He learnt down and pressed cool lips to a hot forehead, before breaking away to return to his desk where he sat and miracled a cocoa – he didn’t much mind the taste anymore; seven times and all that – so he could begin working again, transcribing his newest dream—what he remembered of it, onto paper for safe keeping. He _would_ get his answers._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I currently don't have an official update schedule, but would hope for it to be twice weekly at some near point once I have fully outlined the plot. Thank you for reading!  
> EDIT: The first chapter has been edited and revised (as of: 09/03/2020), as I did not feel it was up to my standards. No critically additional information was added, but I do feel it now gives a clearer picture of the beginning of the story.


End file.
